


Seventy-seven

by Builder



Series: Spiderverse [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: But like in the way your dad lets you expriment, Gen, Mission Fic, Sickfic, Tony/Peter bonding in a father/son kind of way, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Vomiting, not in a bad wild illegal way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 22:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12517616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: After a mission, Peter's eager to follow Tony to the lab and keep working.  Tony tries to get him to chill out.  Turns out offering a 15-year-old a drink and a cigar doesn't end so well.





	Seventy-seven

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, first off, I don't know why everything about this fic sounds super suggestive, but it's totally not. Zero sexual content here.
> 
> Second, this fic has no title, but it is number 77 on my huge list of 100 prompts, so that's what we're going with. 
> 
> Third, I don't know anything about cigars.
> 
> Fourth, this is a prompt for Tumblr. Find me @Builder051

Peter told May he was going to a weekend tech summit as part of the Stark internship.  Tony told Peter they were going to round up some subway bombers.  Well, he’d actually said the plan was to round up the motherfuckers and stop them from doing shit, but Peter’d googled some local news stories and more or less figured it out.

 

Now he’s running in circles, webbing the two dorky college kid offenders together back-to-back like a pair of old western train robbers.  FRIDAY’s talking Tony through diffusing the bomb.  Or rather, “bomb,” since the explosives are of the caliber necessary to blow up a trash can and not much else.  But still, the menace of subway delays is serious business, or at least it is to the transportation authority, and the greater New York public will be glad to see these dweebs in police custody.  Plus, it’s good publicity for the superhero community.  Of which Peter’s ecstatic to think of himself as a member.

 

“Good work, kid,” Tony says, tossing the deactivated explosive device over his shoulder so it breaks into Lego-like pieces upon the impact with the tile floor.  Then, “FRIDAY, call the cops.”

 

“The emergency or non-emergency line, sir?” the AI’s accented voice asks.

 

“Uh, let’s go with non-emergency,” Tony decides.  “I think these jerks can hang around and wait a while.”  The two bombers grit their teeth and glare. Casual subway riders are starting to stop and stare and take selfies.

 

“Ok, good, we’re done,” Tony says once he’s finished placing the call.  “Cops’ll come and them up.”

 

“That was, like, really fast,” Peter comments.  It’s still before noon on Saturday.  He’d expected things to take a lot longer.

 

“Yeah, this one wasn’t fun enough to draw out,” Tony replies.  “Not enough aerial combat.”

 

They climb the stairs up into the sunshine of Times Square.  Tony hovers a few inches off the ground.  He points at a glossy black SUV standing out from the sea of yellow cabs.  “That’s Happy.  Go get in the car.  I’ll see you back in the lab in a couple hours.”

 

“What, you’re not coming with me?” Peter asks, confused.

 

“Me?  Sit in a car and drive upstate?  When I can fly there in a few minutes?  Please.”  Tony jets up another couple feet over the crosswalk.

 

“Oh, ok.  See ya soon.  Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter says.  But he wonders if he could possibly talk him into adding jet action to his next suit upgrade so maybe they can fly together sometime.

 

Peter slides into the backseat of the car and immediately slips off his mask.  “Hey, Happy,” he says. 

 

“Mm,” Happy acknowledges him.  Peter’s done this enough times to know Happy isn’t thrilled to talk to him, so he just settles in for the long ride and reaches into his suit’s interior pocket to retrieve his phone.  He checks Facebook, then plays overly-strategic games of Candy Crush until he’s out of lives. 

 

When they’re finally pulling up the long driveway to the Avengers facility, Peter has the side of his head pressed up against the window, trying not to be sleepy or carsick.

 

“Alright.  Get out,” Happy says as he stops the car near the building’s metal and glass front door. 

 

“Thanks for the ride,” Peter says, grabbing his phone and mask from the seat beside him and hastening out of the vehicle.  Happy’s already speeding toward the separate garage by the time Peter’s opening the front door.  He wonders if maybe Tony will let him take a car for a spin sometime… Then decides the answer is probably never in a million years.

 

“Mr. Stark is in his lab on the ground floor,” FRIDAY announces as soon as Peter’s in the cavernous entryway.  “Your room is prepared with clothes and toiletries if you’d like to stop off there first.”

 

“Yeah, thanks,” Peter says to the AI.  He hops in the elevator and rides it up to the 4th floor.  He resists the urge to creep down the long hall and see if any of his neighbors are home.  He’s dying to meet Steve Rogers in person, but the embarrassment that would certainly come from barging in on Captain America is a good deterrent.

 

Once in his room, Peter strips out of his suit and grabs jeans and a t-shirt from his fully-stocked closet.  He’s careful not to take any of his name-brand, Stark-provided wardrobe home with him so May doesn’t get suspicious, but he’s always up for the chance to put on the fancy threads.

 

Peter heads into his impressively appointed bathroom to splash water on his face and investigate the collection of Axe body sprays lined up on the countertop.  Once he’s confident he’s freshened up, Peter bounds back to the elevator to meet Mr. Stark in the lab.

 

Tony’s bent over a long piece of red and blue fabric, using tweezers to adjust a line of miniscule sensors.  He looks up when Peter steps out of the elevator.  “Mr. Parker to see you, sir,” FRIDAY pronounces, a little belatedly.

 

“No shit,” Tony replies.

 

“Is that the upgrade to my suit?” Peter asks, peering at the project spread out on the lab bench.

 

“Um, yeah,” Tony says, looking down at it, then back to Peter.  “But, you know what, we’re gonna look at this later.”  He lays his tweezers down like a bookmark and carefully folds up the fabric. 

 

“Oh,” Peter says, trying to hide his disappointment.  “What are we doing now?”

 

“I’ve been told by a few people that I’m a workaholic,” Tony says.  “And a couple other –holic things that maybe aren’t as…positive.”

 

Peter wonders where this is going.

 

“So I’m gonna make an effort not to mess up with you.”  Tony moves the project to a shelf of what appears to be other pending designs.  “You’ve just been on a mission.  The proper thing to do, for, you know, optimal mental health, is to debrief and relax.”

 

“Ok,” Peter agrees, still a little unsure where this is going.

 

“So, debrief,” Tony pronounces, slapping his empty lab bench with one hand.  “You did good.  You followed my orders.  Uh.  Suggestions, let’s call them suggestions.  The mission was a success.”

 

“Any, like, constructive criticism?” Peter asks, eager to improve.

 

“Hm.  You know when you were hogtying those kids together?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter says, already picturing the moment.

 

“It maybe would’ve looked cooler if you weren’t running in circles.  You could’ve, you know, like, whipped creamed it, maybe.”  Tony mimes the circular action of spraying Reddi Whip, then flips his wrist and tries it again.  “I don’t know.  Maybe bad for carpal tunnel.  But at least you won’t look like a dog chasing its tail.”

 

“Oh, yeah, ok,” Peter immediately agrees.  “I’ll give it a try.  Give me a web shooter.  I’ll see if I can—”

 

“Not working right now,” Tony reminds him.  “Do that tomorrow.  We’ve got all day.”

 

“So…?”

 

“So now, I’m teaching you how to relax.  And keep from getting stressed out.  And having panic attacks.”  Tony opens a cabinet and pulls out two glasses and a bottle of scotch.  Then he opens another and reveals a humidor.

 

“I don’t know if I’m allowed…” Peter starts, curiosity and nervousness warring in his conscience. 

 

“You have adult supervision.  You’re allowed.” Tony pours drinks and selects a couple cigars, then leads Peter to the couch and coffee table in a cozier corner of the lab.  “Controlled exposure, I think it’s called?  You see adults modeling positive use behavior, so you’re less likely to abuse.  Or, you know, all the shit my dad never thought to do for me, so I turned out fucked up, and now I’m on a mission to make sure you don’t.”

 

“Oh.  Wow,” Peter murmurs.

 

“That was…TMI.  Sorry,” Tony says.  “Here, come sit, and I’m gonna show you how to do this…”

 

He shows the correct way to cut the cigar, then lights his and holds it between his teeth while he passes the cutter and lighter to Peter.

 

“Yep, good, just like that,” Tony encourages while Peter chops off an end.  “And, yeah, you got it.  Ok, light it up now, and…”

 

Peter places the cigar between his lips a little prematurely and inhales.  He’s hacking when Tony says, “See, you don’t want to do that, otherwise that happens.  So yeah, don’t inhale.  Just kind of puff on it.  It’s nice.  Goes great with scotch.”

 

Peter hesitantly lifts his glass and sniffs the alcohol. 

 

“I’m assuming you know not to chug that,” Tony says.  “Sip.  Puff.  Chat.  If you want.  See?  It’s relaxing.”

 

Peter sees the appeal.  Or, at least the appeal of being invited to partake in the ritual of possibly his favorite genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist. 

 

“So you, uh, do this after missions?” Peter asks, trying to alternate puff and sip without overwhelming his senses.

 

“Yeah, when I get a chance.  Sometimes it’s hard to remember to decompress…”

 

Twenty minutes in, Peter’s halfway through his glass, growing a long ash on his cigar, and a little tired of both.  The novelty’s worn off, and he’s decided he isn’t wild about either flavor.  His head’s starting to feel a little fuzzy, and not in a comfortable, sleepy way.

 

“How long do these burn for?” he asks, gesturing to his smoldering cigar. 

 

“An hour.  Ish,” Tony replies, blowing a smoke ring at the ceiling.  “If you’re asking how long till we get back to work, you’re missing the point of the exercise.”

 

“No, I…It’s good,” Peter says.  Lies.  He takes another puff.  The edges of his vision are starting to portray floating movements he’s pretty sure aren’t there.  Unless the lab suddenly materialized on a boat instead of in a very sturdy building.  But that’s absurd.  Almost as absurd as the thought of him, a sophomore, smoking a fucking cigar.

 

Another ten minutes pass, and Peter’s definitely dizzy.  His stomach feels like it’s roiling around the liquor he’s swallowed.  His fingers are sweaty andtrembly on the cigar in his right hand.  He abandons his glass on the coffee table and surreptitiously snakes his left arm around his stomach.  Every functioning neuron in his brain, which is admittedly not many at this point, is saying he should give up on this attempt at relaxation.  Peter definitely feels worse than he did when he started.  He’s no less keyed up.  It’s just that now he’s worried about being sick instead of about upgrading his suit.

 

He does his best to ride out the silence and just breathe while his cigar smolders and shakes slightly over his lap.  But when Peter’s brow starts prickling with sweat and his mouth fills with excessive smoky-flavored spit, he has to speak up.  “Um.  Mr. Stark?” 

 

“Yeah?”

 

Peter fully intends his next words to be __I don’t feel very good__.  He gets as far as, “I…” when bile explodes into his throat, and he hurriedly forces his remaining breath into, “I’mgonnathrowup.”

 

“What?” Tony asks, maybe not understanding Peter’s rushed speech.  He does understand the shuddering gag that sends Peter doubling over himself and nearly igniting his knee with his cigar.

 

“Ok, here,” Tony springs to action.  He snatches Peter’s smoke away and tosses it into an ashtray, then he gets a hand behind Peter’s back and shoves him in the direction of the lab’s bathroom.

 

Peter stumbles under the weight of the dizziness and gets to his feet.  His legs seem to be moving impossibly slowly compared to the speed of the sickness rising from his stomach.  Peter can’t get the toilet lid up quickly enough, and he heaves on top of it once before his quivering fingers can slide beneath the heavy white plastic and push it open.  Luckily it’s only a trickle of spit that comes up. 

 

The next few retches are just as hollow, echoing off the bleach-scented toilet water and making Peter’s tender head spin.

 

“Hey, you alright?” Tony says from the doorway.

 

“Nuh,” Peter manages.  He finally manages to bring up alcoholic bile, and the taste makes him gag all over again.

 

“Oh geez.  I’m sorry.  This is kind of all my fault,” Tony says while Peter tries to catch his breath. 

 

“No, it’s, uh, it’s fine,” Peter tries to croak out, but he loses himself in another heave.

 

“It’s not,” Tony says, seriousness creeping into his tone.  “I fucked up, and I’m sorry.”

 

Peter uses a wad of toilet paper to wipe his mouth.  He sits back on his heels and shakily flushes the toilet.  “I just…wasn’t quite ready for…It’s kind of a shock to the system.”

 

“Yeah, kid, you’re pretty shocked, there.”  Tony’s sarcasm’s back.  “Here, I’ll take you up to your room, you can crash out for a while.”

 

Peter thinks of the elevator, and his heart practically drops through the floor.  “No, I… really would rather stay here.  Don’t…really want to move.”

 

“Yeah, ok, you’re fried,” Tony chuckles.  “Probably better to keep this between us anyway.  If you can crawl your way back to the couch, I’ll clean up the evidence…”


End file.
